


Dealing With the Curve

by WelpThisIsHappening



Series: You Play Ball Like a Girl [5]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-07-11 20:24:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15979832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WelpThisIsHappening/pseuds/WelpThisIsHappening
Summary: Emma Swan was waiting - for her phone to ring and her boyfriend's phone to ring and for the lady in the row behind them to, eventually, kick them out of whatever building they were in because they were totally disrupting graduation.It had been years since that very first story ran about Henry, but now with college graduation in front of him and the rest of their lives in front of Emma and Killian, waiting to make contact with the perfect, metaphorical, pitch was proving a very specific type of challenge.Or: an almost You Play Ball Like a Girl sequel with history jokes, baseball jokes and very loud quasi-family members!





	Dealing With the Curve

“Do we all know what order we’re supposed to be in?”  
  
“Emma, we know how to spell,” David said reasonably, but the words got a little less precise as the three-year-old in his arms attempted to climb over his shoulders. Emma gritted her teeth, only slightly concerned for the kid and the state of David’s body and, maybe most importantly, the state of the signs she’d drawn herself in the hotel the night before.

Or, well, kind of by herself.

Killian had definitely helped.

“I’m not questioning that,” Emma promised. David widened his eyes. Mary Margaret laughed. Killian kissed the top of her hair, and pulled Teddy away from David, immediately making faces at the kid and drawing out a string of laughter that would, inevitably, disrupt the graduation ceremony they were about to attend.

And probably ruin Emma’s signs.

She was irrationally worried about the signs.

And it didn’t really have anything to do with the signs.

“It sounds a little like you’re questioning if we know how to spell,” Mary Margaret said, voice even despite how clearly frustrated she was with Emma’s absurd plan and questions. “You drew us a map.”  
  
“It wasn’t a map!”  
  
“It was kind of a map, Swan,” Killian muttered. He was still making faces at Teddy, quiet noises that weren’t actually words and fingers dancing over the curve of the kid’s shoulders and they were wearing so much orange.

It was ridiculous.

“No, it wasn’t,” Emma objected. “It was a directional--”

“--Map,” David finished, smile only slightly teasing and he probably knew this wasn’t about the signs. Everyone knew it wasn’t about the signs. And everyone was doing an absolutely awful job of pretending they didn’t know.

It was a wonder Killian hadn’t started taking practice swings in the middle of whatever arena they were in.

Emma assumed it was only because there were so many people there. And he knew it would freak her out. God, she was totally freaking out.

Orange was the worst color in the history of the world.

“John Paul Jones,” Killian said, hitching Teddy further up his side and wincing when tiny fingers found the collar of his shirt. They probably weren’t supposed to wear t-shirts, but they were a five-person Henry cheering section sporting school colors and meticulously drawn signs with far too many sparkles on them, but that had been Mary Margaret’s addition and Emma didn’t have the heart to tell her that was even crazier than anything she’d done.

She’d been too busy pacing and waiting for Killian’s phone to ring.

And her phone, honestly. Because it was the middle of May and the only reason she’d been able to get time off to attend the UVA graduation ceremony was because Charlottesville was actually pretty close to D.C. and the Wizards were on some kind of insane playoff push and _The Athletic_ thought it’d be a really fantastic, vaguely emotional story to write about John Wall.

Emma did too. And she wrote for _The Athletic_ now, a national beat at a national website that, hopefully, wasn’t going to go bankrupt any time soon and wanted her to write about the entire NBA for the foreseeable future.

She wrote and asked questions and went to D.C. for really fantastic, vaguely emotional stories.

And waited for John Wall’s agent to return her calls about getting a one-on-one after the team’s walk-through the next morning.

And Killian kept waiting for--

“John Paul Jones,” he repeated.

Emma blinked. “Are you speaking in code?”  
  
“That’s a person, right?” Mary Margaret asked, and Killian didn’t roll his eyes but that was only because Teddy was staring at him and the three-year-old in question considered him his own personal hero.

The thought of _that_ was almost enough to distract Emma from her frustration regarding John Wall and his agent and Major League Baseball. As a whole. They weren’t really connected.

“You’re going to rip your sign, Em,” David muttered, flicking his now-free hand on her arm.

She blinked again, shaking her head like she was trying to wake herself up from a dream and she didn’t know what to do with the look on Killian’s face. He totally knew. And she’d totally made a seating map.

“Right, right, right,” she mumbled. “Are you going to explain why you’re talking about John Paul Jones now?

“Or who he is,” Mary Margaret added.

“He did stuff with boats, right?”  
  
“Oh my God, Swan,” Killian sighed, perching on the top of a chair that hadn’t completely unfolded yet. Teddy was standing on his knees. That seemed to only be causing Mary Margaret a small amount of stress. “Ships, love. He sailed ships. Famously.”  
  
“I see no difference in our terminology.”  
  
“You are an award-winning reporter.”  
  
“Who’s never once written a story about boats.”  
  
“Ships.”  
  
“Those either,” Emma grinned, some of her concern over the state of their very silents phones lessening when she was busy flirting. “And never a story about crew.”  
  
Killian quirked an eyebrow. “Really? Not once?”  
  
“You’ve read, like, every story I’ve ever written.”

“And assigned a few of them too,” David added, resting his hand on Teddy’s back when he started to wobble a bit. He was still laughing. They were going to ruin UVA graduation.

“I mean, that too,” Emma admitted. “You think I’ve got a whole bunch of secret crew stories I’ve been hiding from you?”  
  
“That would be rather deceptive, don’t you think, Swan?” Killian asked.

It was good Henry was wherever he was, presumably not wearing as much orange as they were because graduation robes were horrible enough already, they didn’t have to be the worst shade of color imaginable as well, and he absolutely would have groaned at the distinct amount of flirting going on in their designated row. Emma was fairly positive strangers were rolling their eyes at them.

And, really, that hadn’t changed much in the last five years or so. The flirting was just as easy as it had been since Emma had nearly run Killian over in front of an elevator and he was assigning her stories. It was simple and _them_ and some kind of foundation for _everything_ in a way that wasn’t nearly as overwhelming as it used to be.

It just was.

That was the best way Emma could explain it – which, really, was kind of frustrating because she was, as advertised, an award-winning journalist with some kind of national following, but the adjectives seemed unnecessary when it came to her and Killian and most of Storybrooke was still hopelessly confused why they hadn’t gotten married, or at least engaged yet, but it had just...never happened.

It didn’t really need a definition. There was no lede. No headline. Just a joint byline in a metaphor that didn’t entirely make sense.

Emma leaned over the armrest before she really considered it, letting the imitation wood push into her stomach and the ring that was constantly around her neck fell over the UVA shirt she had on when her lips brushed over Killian’s.

He smiled against her mouth.

“Absolutely deceptive,” Emma mumbled, waving a dismissive hand in David’s general direction when he made an disapproving noise. “And I still have yet to hear what exactly John Paul Jones is bringing to this conversation. Or why you felt the need to shout his name in this very crowded hall, conference building thing.”  
  
“It’s definitely a hall, love.”  
  
“Not an answer to the question.”

“An aggressive interrogation.”  
  
“Does that circle us back around to the Navy?”  
  
Killian leaned back, eyes far too bright to be anything except distracting and Emma only managed to stop herself from kissing him again when he heard someone click their tongue in reproach in the row behind them. She had to bite her lip not to laugh.

“How did you know he was in the Navy?” Killian asked.

“Context clues. All those award-winning traits coming back to help when dealing with an aggressive and uncooperative source.”

David groaned again. “God, if you’re going to do this now, at least give me my kid. Killian’s going to let him fall on the ground trying to impress Emma.”  
  
“Ok, that’s not even remotely true,” Killian argued, huffing when Teddy managed to dig his heel into his side. “Kid, you can’t lead with your feet like that. No one wants to watch you play soccer. Stop kicking.”

“Please,” Mary Margaret muttered. “He stands in front of the mirror in our room every morning trying to perfect his swing. No one’s even acknowledging soccer in this family.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”  
  
“Plus,” David added. “You know people in the Yankees front office, right? You throw some compliments around, a couple of pointed opinions and bam, we’re sitting with one of the Steinbrenners and discussing prospect options.”  
  
“You’ve put way too much thought into this.”  
  
“That’s not a disagreement.”  
  
“Too much thought.”  
  
“You know people in the Yankees front office, yes or no question.”

Killian shook his head, but the smile was still there and he’d absolutely considered the baseball future of Teddy Nolan and how soon was too soon to bring him to the cages at the Piers. “Yes I know people in the Yankees front office,” he said.

“Because some of them helped Henry get a job?”  
  
“That’s not true either.”  
  
“Eh…”  
  
“It’s not,” Killian objected, but it kind of was and there’d been phone calls and resumes e-mailed and guarantees and it probably wasn’t great for Emma’s heart to be stuttering so often in her chest like that. He’d never admit he helped anyway. She knew. Like he knew she was worried.

That was how they operated.

And Henry had a spot with the communications office of the Yankees AAA affiliate in Scranton waiting for him as soon as he flipped the tassel on his, maybe, orange graduation cap.

“It’s a little true,” Emma said. Killian gaped at her. “Aw, c’mon, that’s not a betrayal. You agreed with David about the map thing!”

“That’s totally different.”

“You were on the phone all the time for, like, the last month telling them how great he’d be and how much he knew about baseball and--”

“--Both of those are true!”

The lady behind them clicked her tongue again.

“Oh my God,” Mary Margaret sighed. She twisted, leaning over the top of her chair and the woman, not wearing a UVA-branded t-shirt, stuttered a bit on the look on Mary Margaret’s face. “Listen,” she said. “We are going to be very loud this entire time. And inevitably obnoxious. Because our kid is graduating. And he’s worked really hard for this and two award-winning reporters, both of whom are super stressed out because his possible dream job hasn’t called back yet, made sure he got the chance to do this. So we’re going to yell and we’re going to sit according to Emma’s map and we’re probably going to scandalize you. Just, like, FYI.”

The woman’s jaw dropped.

So did Emma’s.

Her heart had no idea what to do next.

Mary Margaret nodded once, a quiet certainty that came from years of dealing with kids and parents and her own child’s tendencies to practice swings in front of the mirror every morning.

“So, uh…” David started, Teddy climbing into his lap and wrapping both his arms tightly around his neck. “That was...something.”  
  
Mary Margaret scrunched her nose. “Too harsh?”  
  
“I mean, a little, maybe,” Emma admitted. “And that lady can probably still hear you. Or us. Or me. Since I’m the one talking. Also did you call Henry our kid?”  
  
“Isn’t he? Kind of?”  
  
“Kind of.”  
  
“Killian totally got him the job with the Railroaders,” Mary Margaret said, no room for objection in her voice and Emma hoped she didn’t get detention before the graduation ceremony was over.

Emma hummed, pressing a kiss to his cheek when the tips of his ears went red. “He totally did. Henry’s the one who’s got all that baseball knowledge though.”  
  
“Only because he idolizes Killian.”  
  
“It’s honestly not fair at all,” David whined. “I mean...what’s that even about? Henry and Teddy and like...you just give ‘em a bunch of Louisville equipment and tell him how to hit homers.”  
  
“And slide properly,” Emma added.

Killian’s ears were never going to return to the correct color.

“Exactly. Exactly. Which, you know, who even slides anymore?”  
  
“Quite a lot of people actually,” Killian muttered. “And I didn’t do anything except make sure someone knew Henry was looking for a job. It just so happened to be with Scranton. And they just so happened to agree with me that he was the best person for the job.”  
  
“Yuh huh.”  
  
“Your support is invaluable, Detective.”

David made a noise in the back of his throat, not quite a scoff and note quite a laugh and something that was decidedly familiar because they were absolutely a family and they were totally going to scandalize everyone in a ten-foot radius when their kid graduated college. With honors. And a job offer waiting for him.

“And,” Killian continued. “I’m not super stressed out about the lack of phone call. That’s just patently incorrect.”  
  
Mary Margaret gritted her teeth. “You know what they say about arguing too much.”  
  
“Protesting too much.”  
  
“Don’t correct my references. I’m following your girlfriend’s crazy sign map because you guys are both so worried about this. It’s going to be fine.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Emma stammered, waving her hands through the air and seriously that lady behind them probably should have moved because everything they were doing appeared to be frustrating her. “I’m _his_ girlfriend now?”  
  
“When you draw crazy sign maps to tell us how to spell _HENRY_ , then yes, you are not just Emma Swan, normal human, you are Emma Swan, overstressed girlfriend who’s trying to compensate the lack of interview schedule and confirmation from the MLB and--”

“--Maybe we don’t use the actual league name out loud,” Killian mumbled.

“You think you’re going to jinx it?” David asked skeptically, and that was absolutely, one-hundred percent what it was. Killian shrugged.

He’d gotten the first call nearly a month ago.

He’d been at _The Writer_ for two years, wrote his column and won another award and been far more impressed with the dress Emma wore to the ceremony than any sort of plaque he’d brought home. She hung it up anyway. But then there’d been layoffs and there wasn’t much rhyme or reason to them, just a new owner and the newspaper industry was the newspaper industry and they’d sat on the floor with their backs pressed against the couch and takeout containers strewn in front of them, trying to figure out what to do next.

ESPN.

Killian went to goddamn ESPN and started writing for the New York section of a website he claimed was _a coding and design disaster_ and it always made Emma laugh. Every single time. He wrote and wrote and there were more awards ceremonies for both of them, because she got the job at _The Athletic_ and he looked just as good in a suit and tie as she did in a dress, and he started covering baseball. And only baseball.

She’d asked him if it felt weird, to be back on a 162-game beat that should have been a different kind of career, but he shook his head and kissed her and any worry Emma had flew out several metaphorical windows because they were good and great and all those adjectives she didn’t actually care about.

And, then, a month ago, the phone rang.

The MLB was interested and wanted him to write and appear on the Network and they hadn’t used the term _insider_ , but Emma had been in the industry for nearly a decade and she knew what this was. It was big. It was huge.

It was Killian Jones’ dream job in the life he’d built for himself.

With her.

She’d obviously become some kind of overemotional sap at some point. It was probably because he kept at least three containers of cinnamon in several different cabinets at all time.

That kind of thing was more than enough to mess with a person’s romantic perception.

So he bought a new suit and a new tie and Emma promised it was _going to be great_ as soon as he walked out the door and took NJ Transit to Secaucus and the interview lasted nearly two hours, a discussion Killian admitted later that night was _only kind of intimidating_ and _felt a little like getting recruited again_ and they watched baseball on the living room floor with their legs tangled together for the rest of the night.

They fell asleep there.

Together. Or something less absurdly sentimental and sappy.

He was totally freaking out. Emma was totally freaking out. She wanted and he wanted and they wanted, as the collective unit they absolutely were, no matter what, in some kind of indefinite way, and Killian had agreed to the signs as a distraction.

“Athlete,” Emma explained. “He’s prone to superstition by default.”

“It’s not just that, Swan,” Killian argued. “It’s just...it’s been over a week and they’ve obviously got plenty of other people who are qualified and--”  
  
“--You’re qualified!”

“I’ve never really done TV before.”  
  
“What did you just say? That’s patently untrue? So is that. You’ve done plenty of TV. You were on NBC 4 all the time! You were, like, a regular. And we did all those videos and--”  
  
“--That’s not the same thing, love.”  
  
“You are pulling a straws. You know you’d be great at this. Analysis and breaking news and trades and...I’m just...those are just words, I know I’m just saying words now, so don’t bother pointing out that’s what I’m doing, I’m totally aware of what I’m doing. But, this is, you know what?”  
  
“What?” Killian asked, a hint of laughter on the edge of his voice and she still had no goddamn idea why he’d been talking about John Paul Jones before. She had no idea what year John Paul Jones had gotten on his boats.

“Screw all those other incredibly qualified people,” Emma said bluntly, appreciating her _boyfriend’s_ wide-eyed expression far more than she should with an incredibly judgmental lady sitting in the row behind them. “They all suck,” Emma continued. “They’re not you and they don’t have your experience or your connections and that phone is going to ring and John Wall’s going to call me back and we’re going to like...take over the world or something. And I really think boyfriend and girlfriend are kind of lame relationship terms.”

Killian pressed his lips together, something on the edge of his gaze that felt familiar and entirely different Emma tried to regulate her breathing. She’d stopped breathing at some point.

Probably when she announced every other interviewee sucked.

“I don’t think John Wall is going to call you back, love,” Killian muttered, leaning forward and letting his fingers ghost over the side of her neck. “If you want to get technical.”  
  
“I really don’t.”  
  
“Boyfriend and girlfriend are definitely kind of lame relationship terms.”  
  
Emma nodded, letting her forehead rest against him. The armrest was going to do damage to her pancreas. “This is going to work,” she promised. “I know it.”  
  
“That sounds suspiciously like hope.”  
  
“I’ve been hanging out with M’s and Teddy a lot. I was bound to pick up on some of it.”  
  
“Hey,” Mary Margaret snapped. “I feel like I should resent that.”  
  
“I don’t think you’re capable of that,” Emma said. “Also it was actually kind of a compliment. Right? That’s how those words worked in that order.”  
  
“You’re the journalist,” David reasoned. “Also is anyone going to actually explain why, no jinx, soon to be MLB insider Killian Jones was giving a roundabout history of John Paul Jones without explaining why he was doing that?”  
  
“Oh, yeah, yeah, that’s the name of the hall we’re in,” Killian said, flashing Emma a smile when she pulled her head back. “You were looking a little curious, Swan. Just figured I’d answer before you got to the question.”  
  
“The mind reading thing is not nearly as cute as you think it is.”  
  
“Sounds like you think it’s kind of cute though.”  
  
“And that sounds presumptuous.”  
  
“It also sounds like more flirting,” David grumbled. “How has this ceremony not started yet?”  
  
Emma hummed in agreement, shifting the papers in her hands. She was only a little worried about Teddy’s ability to hold the ‘y’ in Henry and the exclamation point. “Yeah, honestly, were we really that early?”  
  
“You were very nervous about your ability to sit according to the map, love,” Killian grinned.

“Betrayer.”  
  
“Honest. That’s a key factor in being a successful journalist, right? Even a fake TV one?”  
  
“You wouldn’t be a fake TV journalist. That was not part of the deal.”  
  
“Eh, just a pretty face for the screen.”  
  
“You’ve got one of those though,” Emma said, and she’d done it entirely for the reaction, the way his eyebrows jumped and his lips parted slightly and how _right_ his hand felt when it fell to the curve of her waist.

“Charmer.”  
  
“Yes, exactly that. Are we seriously in the right order for the signs, though? Because they’re definitely going to start soon--”

The music cut her off, loud and sudden and the lady behind them grumbled a string of rather impressive curses when Killian brushed his lips against Emma’s temple. “Mary Margaret promised her we’d scandalize her,” he muttered.

“I don’t think she was suggesting we start making out in the middle of graduation.”  
  
“You ever make out in the middle of a graduation? Could be fun.”

“Have you?”  
  
“That’s presumptuous, Swan,” Killian whispered, but she could hear his smile and Teddy was definitely doing the best job of holding the signs. She couldn’t find Henry. “And I didn’t actually go to graduation at Louisville, just got my degree and got out of Dodge.”  
  
“That’s the oldest sentence I’ve ever heard.”  
  
“Ah, but you’ve already complimented the state of my face. I think that negates any criticism you could give me.”  
  
“Should I repeat the presumptuous part or….”

“Would you guys, please,” David sighed, dragging out the last few syllables, and Mary Margaret was doing a very good job of trying not to laugh. “You are distracting and we’re all going to get kicked out of John Paul Jones.”  
  
“You’ve got to rephrase that,” Killian said.

David opened his mouth, probably to say something else only mildly witty, but he let out a rather loud exclamation of pain instead, Teddy jumping on his right thigh and landing awkwardly and the signs were a lost cause as soon as the kid saw Henry.

And started shouting his name.

Screaming, really.

“Hen..ry! Hennnnnnnn! Ry! Henry!”  
  
“Were any of those the kid’s actual name?” Killian laughed, twisting to smile at the, now, entire family behind them that was frustrated by their very presence and enthusiasm. “He’s going to work for the Yankees, you know?”  
  
“Oh, I’m going to tell him you were bragging,” Emma chided. Killian shrugged, but his ears had gone red again and Teddy was getting less and less accurate in his name calling.

So, naturally, they all started.

“Henry! Henry! Henry, Henry, Henry!”

There were arms waved and a three-year-old, somehow, standing on David’s shoulders instead of his thighs and Emma wasn’t quite sitting, perched on the top of her seat with her feet barely skimming the ground and the signs spelled out something. It certainly wasn’t _Go Henry!_ anymore.

The exclamation point sign was under Mary Margaret’s left foot anyway.

Emma was fairly certain she saw Henry duck his eyes, lips moving in something that looked a hell of a lot like _oh my God_. Mary Margaret lost the battle against laughter.

“I think we’ve sufficiently embarrassed him for now, right?” Killian asked. He tugged lightly on the back of Emma’s shirt, pulling her back into her seat and her knee bumped against him. “Got to save some of it for crossing the stage.”  
  
David nodded. “What do we think the over-under is on this ceremony?”

“No more than three hours,” Emma answered.

“That’s optimistic.”  
  
“You think it’s going to be longer?”

“How long was the high school one?” Mary Margaret asked. “It’s got to be double that.”  
  
“So, we’re probably all just going to die here, is what you’re saying,” Killian muttered.

Emma rolled her eyes. She couldn’t see Henry anymore – they were sitting down and someone was moving to the podium and she didn’t remember much about their graduation at Seton Hall, just that it felt like it had taken forever.

Maybe three hours was optimistic.

It was.

“God,” David grumbled, _four_ hours later and another speaker coming up to the podium and Mary Margaret had to leave twenty minutes earlier when Teddy decided, in no uncertain terms, he was absolutely _over_ all of this. “How are there more people left to talk? We’ve seen everyone in the world come up to talk already. There can’t be more.”  
  
“Maybe that’s John Paul Jones,” Emma suggested, drawing a skeptical if not a little exhausted laugh out of Killian. The lack of a phone call was making it difficult to sleep.

“That would honestly be impressive.”  
  
“Right? When did he die?”  
  
“I have no idea.”  
  
“Seriously? You going to throw John Paul Jones references out there and then not know everything about him?”  
  
“Those seem like fairly high standards, Swan.”  
  
She squeezed one eye shut at the slightly defeated tone of his voice and they had to be close to diplomas and announced names. _They had to_. “Nah,” she objected, ready to delve into the deep end of decidedly supportive and possibly threatening to the entire MLB, but the guy at the podium was talking and David was trying to swat at Killian’s shoulder and--

“Guys, guys, shut up. I think it’s the main event.”  
  
“About time,” Killian mumbled, Emma twisting to pull her phone out of her back pocket and tell Mary Margaret to _get the hell back into John Paul Jones_. She didn’t appreciate that text. She did, however, run down the aisle, muttering apologies along the way.

“I know, I know, I know,” Mary Margaret said to the row behind them. “But like...I explained this already and our kid is graduating college.”  
  
“Should we repeat that he’s going to work for the Yankees?” David asked. “He’s going to work for the Yankees.”  
  
“He’s going to work for the Yankees,” Emma echoed, and Killian kissed her hair again.

And for how long the rest of it had taken, the University of Virginia seemed determined to breeze through the _main event_ of graduation as quickly as possible.  

Mary Margaret had barely sat down, quiet promises that _it’s almost over_ whispered in Teddy’s ear, when David made a noise of exclamation and Killian was already standing and Henry’s smile was only slightly incredulous when he noticed the line of people jumping and screaming as soon as he set foot on stage.

There was shouting and cheering and hands thrown in the air, as well as a half-finished juice box because Teddy _idolized_ Killian, but Henry was a close second and the whole thing was fairly absurd and decidedly sentimental and Emma kind of wished she didn’t cry.

She knew she was going to – but she didn’t appreciate it either way.

Henry turned back towards the crowd as soon as he finished walking across the stage, smile wide and shoulders straight and there was no hint of embarrassment when he flipped the tassel, a folder that would, eventually, hold a diploma gripped tightly in his hand.

They were probably all crying.

They stayed for the entire ceremony, despite the string of _other_ parents who left as soon as their kid crossed the stage – “Who does that, Swan? Their kid just graduated, they can’t wait half a second to applaud the rest of them? That’s absurd.” – and they weren’t technically parents, but it didn’t really matter because Henry ran towards the whole group of them as soon as he spotted them outside.

His cap was gone, likely a casualty to post-graduation celebration and his eyes widened at the, frankly, insane amount of orange they were all sporting, but he practically flew into Emma’s outstretched arms and she held on as tightly as she had when he was seventeen and thought he’d never get to play baseball again.

There’d been talk of draft possibility – especially after they won the College World Series the year before and there were more tears when Henry’s phone rang in New York that June. But it was the eighty-seventh round and he’d been a walk-on and while his arm in right was impressive, it wasn't major league and he’d shrugged and said “well, I can just write about the teams anyway, like you guys,” and Killian had to walk out of the room.

Probably something about Henry seeing him cry.

He came back, exactly, five minutes later. And hugged Henry.

“You’re going to crush my spleen, Emma,” Henry grumbled, far taller than her and she swatted at his chest when he leaned back to smirk.

“You don’t even know where your spleen is.”  
  
“Not true. I took bio as my science requirement freshman year.”  
  
“And how’d that work out for you?” Killian asked knowingly.

Henry blushed. “Where’d you guys find so much orange school apparel? The school store know you committed a robbery?”

“It was a solid attempt at a subject change.”  
  
“MLB hire you yet?”  
  
“Where’s your girlfriend?”  
  
“That wasn’t much better, honestly.”

Killian hummed, a hand on Henry’s shoulder and it was all slightly _adult_ and a little _hero_ and Emma did kind of want to know where the girlfriend was. And if she was going to come with them to dinner. Or when they inevitably ended up at some kind of batting cage.

There had to be a batting cage in Charlottesville.

“No one has called,” Killian said. “But If you ask Swan, that’s only because they’re busy telling everyone else how much they absolutely suck.”  
  
“Hey, c’mon,” she snapped. “That was supportive.”  
  
“And everyone else absolutely sucks,” Henry said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world and he’d probably already told the entire team Killian was going to work for MLB. No jinx. “Did you make a John Paul Jones joke yet or do I get first dibs?”  
  
David cackled. Emma was sure that lady from the row behind them glared somewhere.

“Totally beat you to the punch,” Killian said, pulling Henry away from Emma and slinging an arm around his shoulders.

“Damn. I figured, but you know...got to ask.”  
  
“Make sure to check with the first base umpire.”  
  
“Is that Emma in this situation?”  
  
“Guess it depends on if it’s a right-handed or left-handed batter.”  
  
“You’re right-handed.”  
  
“Ah, then, yeah, first base, right?”  
  
“What the hell are you two talking about?” David asked exasperatedly, and Teddy did not appreciate that at all. Or how little attention Henry had paid to him in the last five minutes.

“To be honest, I don’t really even know anymore,” Henry admitted. “Mostly that MLB’s dragging its feet and they should have hired Killian as soon as he got off NJ Transit and it’s an absolute disgrace that Teddy and I have not started throwing something already.”  
  
Teddy’s eyes lit up at the sound of his own name, tiny legs barely holding his weight in his quest to jump towards Henry’s chest and Emma briefly wondered if it was possible to die from happiness. Right there in front of John Paul Jones.

“There are too many people out here to throw things,” Mary Margaret said, sounding as if that was not the first time she’d explained that particular point.

“Aye, aye, Mom,” Emma saluted.

“Was that a Navy joke?”  
  
“Just trying to stay on point, you know?”

“Henry, Henry, Henry,” Teddy yelled, clinging to his side and yanking at the collar of his robes. “Can we hit?”

Henry tilted his head, glancing at the so-called adults around him like he was asking permission.

“You going to bring your girlfriend?” Mary Margaret asked. Henry nearly dropped Teddy. And David was going to do permanent damage to his throat if he kept guffawing like that.

“Bring the girlfriend,” he said. “We’ll even let her eat with us.”  
  
“Wow, that’s super hospitable, guys,” Henry mumbled. “And, no, she’s got her own family and I...you know. If we went hitting, that’s kind of an...us thing.”

Emma was seriously going to die. Or at least seriously considering sitting down on the ground. She wasn’t sure how much longer her legs would support her weight.  
  
Killian hadn’t ever moved his arm away from Henry’s shoulders, a weird twist of limbs and smiles and hopes based entirely on the stupid sport of baseball and Teddy was shouting about right field in Yankee Stadium.

“How does he even know that?” Emma asked.

Killian did something completely unfair with his eyebrows. “The kid and I talk, Swan. After the instructional portion of the evening.”  
  
“And David’s convinced he’s going to play short in the Bronx as soon as he graduates high school,” Mary Margaret chipped in. “Going to take over for Didi or something.”  
  
“How long does he think Didi is going to play?”

“Beats me. But he’s also going to wear twenty-eight to honor the last two Yankees shortstops and then probably get inducted in the Hall of Fame before he retires.”  
  
“Impressive,” Henry mused. “But, you know, no pressure or anything.”  
  
“No, no, none. Especially not if you show him how to hit.”  
  
“So, we’re definitely going to hit, right?” David asked, phone out and Google search probably already searching. “Or should we eat first?”  
  
“You want to eat first, don’t you,” Emma said.

“We were in John Paul Jones for days. Days.”  
  
“We’ve really all got to stop saying it like that,” Killian muttered. “And let’s eat before we hit, I’m starving. Thoughts on where to go? And how long we make Henry keep the graduation robes on?”  
  
“The whole night,” Emma, David and Mary Margaret answered in tandem.

Henry groaned.

And it only took twenty minutes of semi-serious arguing to decide on a restaurant. So, that was probably some kind of record.

The cages Henry knew of weren’t that far away from campus, closer to the apartment he’d moved into after his sophomore year, and the guy behind the ticket booth was only slightly skeptical on all seven of them moving towards one pitching machine, but it was a finely tuned system and Mary Margaret never wanted to hit.

“How is it that you’re an NCAA champion, hit double digit home runs last year and you still don’t know how to hold your wrists when you hit?” Killian asked, over an hour into the hitting session. He was sitting a few feet away from the metal, palms flat on the ground and Emma flush against his side. He had to take his phone out of his pocket to sit down, both of their eyes flitting to the silent screen every few seconds, like looking at it would make it actually do something.

Henry kicked back against the side of the cage.

“You’re going to break the whole thing,” David warned. “But seriously, your wrists look like undercooked pasta.”  
  
“That is an oddly specific reference,” Emma said.

“I thought of it over Christmas break. Been saving it since. It’s good, right?”  
  
“Oddly specific.”  
  
“Ah, shut up.”  
  
She grinned at him.

“And,” Henry added, grunting slightly when he swung at another pitch. “I hit double-digit homers this season too. Just because we didn’t make it out of the region, does not mean the stat didn’t count. So leave my wrists alone, Killian.”

“I’m just saying.”  
  
“I know you are. I don’t see you in here.”  
  
“That’s because you won’t get out.”  
  
Henry’s shoulders slumped, but his lips quirked when he glanced towards them and Killian answered his smile with one of his own. “It’s really stupid how right you are all the time.”  
  
“This invaluable advice I’m giving you, kid.”

“Sure it is. Fine, fine, you want to hit?”

“I didn’t say that.

Henry scowled. “Sure it wasn’t. C’mon. I only missed...what, six pitches?”  
  
“Were we supposed to be counting?” Emma asked, already well aware of the answer. Killian’s fingers brushed over the back of her wrist.

“Killian was,” Mary Margaret answered.

“And it was only five,” Killian said. “Alright, so, what do I win if I hit better than you?”  
  
“Generic pride?” Henry shrugged, chuckling when Killian shook his head. “I don’t know...I’ll get you a UVA shirt that’s not horrendously orange.”  
  
“Stop hating on our color scheme,” Emma groaned. “We did that so you could see us.”  
  
“And because you’re worried about John Wall calling you.”

“How do you know that?”  
  
“I’ve watched you guys get sources for years. I know how it all works. Also, would John Wall actually call you or like his people?”  
  
“His people,” Killian said, kissing her quick before standing up and holding his hand out expectantly. “I’ve got to miss less than five?” Henry nodded. “And what happens if I don’t?”  
  
Henry considered that for a moment, resting his weight on the barrel of the bat when it dug into the ground and the batting cage people were never going to let them back. “Me, you and Emma have to come up with some kind of sign-off signal and you do it after your first MLB Network spot and then I get to brag about it for...what’s a reasonable amount of time?”  
  
“At least a month,” Emma said.

“Yeah, at least a month.”  
  
Killian didn’t move, and for half a moment Emma was worried they’d leapt over some unspoken and invisible line, a stretch of worries and insecurity and silent phone that shouldn’t have existed after all these years, but _did_ because this was baseball and as close to the game as he could get anymore and he _wanted_ as much as she did.

As much as Henry did.

From the very start.

“Yeah, ok,” Killian nodded, pulling the bat out of Henry’s hand. “No more than five misses in a round of this super old machine.”  
  
He hit every single pitch.

Of course he did.

Emma wasn’t surprised, might have been slightly to moderately to _absurdly_ attracted to it – eyes wide and breath stuttered and she had to press her teeth in her lower lip to stop from embarrassing herself because she still couldn’t really come to terms with the twist of Killian’s hips when he hit.

He kissed her as soon as he walked out of the cage, not bothering to let go of the bat and his left hand was warm when it found its way under the edge of her t-shirt.

And Emma didn’t hear anything, pointedly ignored the sound of Henry and David’s eerily similar groans, and Teddy’s shouts, just focused on the feel of Killian in front of her and how easy it was to believe and trust and a slew of other important relationship buzzwords. She felt dizzy with it, the certainty and the confidence and how goddamn _fantastic_ they were at kissing each other.

She didn’t hear anything – even Mary Margaret’s increasingly frantic voice.

Killian sighed, nipping at Emma’s lower lip and squeezing his hand on her hip. “Later,” he promised, and she had to squeeze her eyes closed to stop herself from combusting right there.

“Yeah, uh, that might be a good idea,” Mary Margaret said. She was holding a phone. “I didn’t notice it ringing before.”

“Oh shit,” Henry breathed, rolling his eyes when Emma clicked her tongue. The lady from graduation would probably have been proud of that.

“It’s ringing again. So, you know...we might want to answer that.”

“We?” David asked skeptically.

“Ah, well, a collective we of familial support.”

Killian scoffed, but it almost sounded like a laugh, mouth pressing against Emma’s once more – like he was looking for good luck or more athletic superstition and his hand didn’t shake when he took his phone. “Hello?”

It took, by Emma’s rough estimate, exactly seven minutes and forty-three seconds for the entire world to change.

She wasn’t sure she blinked in that entire time. Henry had started pacing somewhere around the three-minute mark, David pulling the bat out of Killian’s hand when he started idly swinging it six minutes into the conversation.

Mary Margaret laced her fingers through Emma’s.

“Yeah, that sounds great,” Killian said, practically sprinting over the words with an excitement Emma had only heard a few times before. “Yeah, yeah, I can absolutely be there then.”  
  
David dropped the bat. Henry stopped pacing. Mary Margaret squeezed Emma’s hand.

“Thank you,” Killian continued. He took a deep breath when he put his phone back in his pocket, eyes immediately finding Emma’s and he didn’t quite nod – she didn’t really give him a chance.

She kind of, sort of, jumped at him.

His arms wrapped around her waist and one of her sandals fell off and there was not enough absolutely good enough for TV face to kiss. She tried anyway, peppering kisses on the curve of his jaw and the bridge of his nose and just on the edge of his eye, lingering for a moment on the scar on his cheek.

And she probably should have said something first, some kind of proclamation about how she knew and had always known, but Killian beat her to the punch, or the pitch, as it were, and that was almost, actually kind of perfect.

“I love you,” he whispered, and Emma tightened her hold on him.

“I love you, too.”

“So, uh, celebratory ice cream?” David asked. “With the girlfriend? You want to brag to your girlfriend about all the famous people you know, Henry?”  
  
“Why are you being so weird about this?” Emma countered. “Leave the kid alone. But also if you want to brag about how awesome your whole family is in front of your girlfriend’s family, that’d work too.”

Henry already had his phone out. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I want to do. If you pay for extra sprinkles.”  
  
“What kind of horrible adult supervision do you think I am?”

“Perfect then.”  
  
“Perfect,” Killian echoed, and he totally kissed Emma that time. Even Teddy groaned.

And John Wall did return Emma’s call eventually – or his people did, an enthusiastic agreement and a pretty goddamn fantastic interview that got a ridiculous amount of hits and Henry’s girlfriend was totally impressed by how cool his family was.

Emma hugged him for a solid five minutes before they left.

She cried. Again.

“It’s not like I’m never going to see you,” Henry reasoned. “And Scranton’s not that far from New York. They get off days. You guys can come down or I can come up. Camp out on the couch or something.”  
  
“That’s an open invitation.”

“I mean...you guys kiss all the time, so, like, maybe not all the time, but I’ll call before I show up.”

“That might not be a bad idea,” Killian grinned, hand on Henry’s shoulder again and smile on his face and he wasn’t _theirs_ , not really, but Emma’s emotions didn’t care and her heart cared even less and she kissed Henry’s cheek when he hugged her goodbye.

“I love you guys,” Henry muttered. “You know that right?”  
  
Emma nodded. “Yeah, we do. We love you, too, kid.”

“I’ll tell everyone to click on the story and figure out how to get MLB Network on their cable packages. Don’t mess up your reports, Killian.”  
  
“Never,” Killian promised.

He didn’t. And Emma wasn’t surprised by that either, was almost _too_ confident in how goddamn good he’d be in front of a camera and on camera and both Elsa and Ingrid called to comment on the second one. Regina texted Mary Margaret about it.

He was great, easy and personable with absurdly blue eyes that were probably amplified by the lights on set because that couldn’t be normal. Emma barely heard the actual report, something about the recently insurgent Oakland A’s and there was a joke about Moneyball she was definitely going to make fun of him for, but then it was almost over and Killian moved his left hand. She thought it might have been a mistake at first, but that lasted all of three seconds and Emma’s breath rushed out of her when she realized what he’d done – tapped his chest twice, right over where his heart was.

Twice.

“Oh shit, that’s stupid romantic,” Emma whispered to no one in particular. Her phone buzzed. She wasn’t the only one who noticed.

She didn’t answer. It felt like a kind of...us thing.

Emma fell asleep on the couch, curled into a ball that her body would absolutely object to later, but the bed felt far too empty alone and she wanted to see him when he got home. The floor creaked when Killian moved, toeing out of dress shoes he’d bought as soon as they got back from UVA.

“You should be in bed,” he said, crouching in front of her anyway and brushing his fingers over her hair.  
  
“Was too busy swooning over my very attractive on TV boyfriend.”  
  
“Those compliments, Swan.”  
  
“Yeah, well you’ve got a face made for moving pictures, kid.”  
  
Killian laughed, pressing a kiss to her forehead and she felt his smile. “Talk about old sentences.”

They were quiet for a moment, just the sounds of their almost-steady breathing and the ever-present noise of downtown Manhattan, and Emma wondered if she should actually ask, but she figured they were past caution and labels and--

“Why that sign?” Killian hummed in confusion, brows pulled low when he met her gaze. “I mean, that’s what it was, right? It was. You don’t really have to answer because I know it was, but--”

She didn’t finish, breath catching audibly in her throat when Killian caught her mouth with his and it would have been disappointing if Emma actually fell off the couch. He didn’t let her, body pressed against hers and hands heavy on her waist and the shirt she was wearing was a complete and lost cause.

It was his anyway.

They could have stayed there for the rest of the night – Emma half hanging off the couch in a decades-old Louisville t-shirt with Killian crouched in front of her and her fingers stuck in his hair, but she was having a difficult time getting oxygen to her lungs and she kind of wanted answer to her question.

She was a journalist, after all.

“Why that?”  
  
Killian took a deep breath, lips twisted slightly and shoulders not entirely straight and his ears went a bit red when he answered. “My whole heart, Emma,” he said. “You guys are my whole heart.”

The air she’d been so desperate for a moment before rushed out of her in one, gigantic huff of feeling and love and the rest of her goddamn life, no matter what labels they used, and they didn’t really end up sleeping, but it felt a bit like a celebration and Henry called before he showed up a few weeks later.

“I just figured I’d double check,” he said, pushing two dark blue UVA shirts into Emma and Killian’s hands.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! Well it's been a time since we've gotten into this universe, hasn't it? As part of [The Let’s All Be Good People Prompt-a-Thon & Follower Giveaway](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/post/176674973290/the-lets-all-be-good-people-prompt-a-thon) I got a prompt for a You Play Ball Like a Girl sequel with Henry at college graduation and it was so much fun to write, so thanks for being nice people internet. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading all my words and come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down.


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